Well, the Giants won the World Series. Wow. My Dad would have been so excited. All those games at Candlestick wrapped in blankets, drinking hot chocolate, all the morning breakfast table discussion second guessing the manager, all the worship of Mays, McCovey, Cepeda and Marichal. My Dad was built like a baseball player, as is my brother, and he had the heart for it. He loved tennis, but would have adored being a baseball player. These Giants broke our hearts - Renteria alone was a whole novel, and the kid pitchers, the baby catcher (my favorite position always), the manager who said nothing and kept giving his guys a chance, including Burrell right up to the end. It was baseball drama at its best, and I didn't miss a minute of it.
My husband said this morning that he felt lousy, and he hadn't had even a beer last night. Well, emotion wrings you out as good as any alcohol, and I think he's exhausted from watching the game and holding his breath.
Our younger daughter watched with us, and I just want to say, Dad, you got us all hooked, even the one who doesn't remember you (maybe I helped with that, or the older kids). Our hearts belong to baseball.
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